


Barghest

by EtaeWrites



Category: Thronebreaker: The Witcher Tales, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Nightmares, that's literally all this is there's no happy end here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 23:05:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17212538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EtaeWrites/pseuds/EtaeWrites
Summary: [contains spoilers for important events in Thronebreaker] || Gascon is tortured by nightmares





	Barghest

No light pierces the endless darkness, thick as smoke and ink. It's like being blind, with no sense of direction. Helpless like a leaf in the wind. Drifting around, searching for something to hold onto, a guide out of the void.

A noise gets to his ears, and the Duke of Dogs turns, spins in circles, unable to figure out where the clicking of claws on cobbled stone is coming from. Still darkness all around. Then silence once more, just his own ragged breath coming to his ears now.

Something brushes past his legs, fur on his fingertips. He wants to move, but his feet don't obey.

A hound, now in front of him. As pitch black as the darkest night, and yet he's somehow able to see it. White eyes glowing in it's skull, focused on him. A flash of bright teeth and gums as it barks soundlessly at him. Beckons him to follow. To follow into more darkness.

He traces the hound's steps, like sleepwalking. Silent noises on the stone, their steps in unison. It walks when he walks. Stops when he stops. How does it know where they're going?

The trip stretches endlessly. It could've been hours that he's walking, nothing to see but sometimes the white of the hound's eyes, turning to spare a glance at him.

Finally, something akin to dawn in the distance. Like fires burning far away in an overclouded night.

The silhouette of the hound becomes visible against the shimmer. Large, ragged fur standing up in odd angles. Those piercing, white eyes still staring at him every once in a while. All soundless barks and clicking claws on cobblestones.

The light of the fire draws closer, he can see sparks whirling in the inky air. Tiny fireflies of destruction. Amassing the closer he gets to their source.

He arrives at the fire, the hound standing in front of it in stark contrast. Did it grow? It seems even larger now than before. Another voiceless bark and it steps into the flames. Gascon can't avoid the pull in it's wake, and follows.

Light blinds him for a moment and he feels like the air is being sucked right out of his lungs. He reaches out, finds hold on a stone wall. It feels wet and sticky under his touch. Opening his eyes, he sees the tail tip of the hound vanishing around a corner, leading up a flight of stairs. He knows he must follow it.

He rushes up the seemingly endless stairs, their stones suddenly becoming slippery with blood. Blackclads appear out of nowhere like spectres in the dusk. He lunges at them, slashing and stabbing his way through their ranks. Their blood drenches the stairs even more, sticks to his face and clothes.

The metallic smell stays in his nose and the air in his lungs burns with every breath like he had been peppered with arrows. He looks down, sees the shafts sticking out of his chest like shadows, vanishing a moment later but leaving behind the agony, the way it makes even the smallest movement hard to put into practise.

A pained scream, piercing his ears. It spurs him into running, faster, _faster_ to get to the source, ignoring the ache in every fibre of his body – He knows the voice, the one it belongs to. Never had he heard him in such anguish before.

The stairs are still endless. He slips on the blood running down on the stone, sliding down what feels like half the way. Drags himself up again. Another sprint, another slip. He sees the hound waiting for him, feels like it's laughing at his desperation.

Finally, he reaches the door at the end of the stairs, kicking it open. The room is dark, the smell of blood pungent in the air. A wheeze from a dark corner. Metal glinting in the sparse light of a torch. Shadows flicker over the man, spear sunk into his chest just like the arrows in his own. They're back now. Visible, the pain ever-present. Turning every movement, every breath even more into torture than before.

He sees the other move slightly and rushes closer, ignoring the scorching pain in his chest. Has to be there. _Has to be there_. Collapsing next to him, trying to stop the still flowing rush of crimson. Another movement, a hand rising up, holding his wrist. No words, but a look. _It's over._

Rattled breath and hardly hidden tears find their way to the surface. Holding onto each other. Holding on to life. But hopelessly. Fingers intertwined, blood on their lips. A final smile, a soft touch.

Then darkness.

-

Gascon woke with a start, drawing in a desperate breath he didn't know he had been holding. His hands clutched the fabric of his tunic, feeling for the arrows burrowing into his chest and fortunately finding none. He felt like he was still choking on blood nonetheless.

“What's wrong?”, an alarmed voice got to his ears and he felt a hand on his back.

“Nothin'”, Gascon mumbled, trying to hide his terror – to no avail. He was trembling like a young birch tree in the middle of a storm and he knew Reynard must notice it, too. He heard the rustle of fabric behind him and just a moment later found himself in an embrace.

“Never heard a worse lie from you”, Reynard said.

“It's nothin', really”

“You're trembling an awful lot for it being nothing”

A shaky sigh escaped Gascon and he finally allowed himself to lean into the embrace. There was no use to denying it anyway. Instead of answering though, he twisted just enough to pull the other in for a kiss.

“... I dreamt we died”, he eventually whispered, unsure of himself in that moment. Nightmares usually weren't something that got him riled up, but this one had felt so frighteningly real.

Reynard's answer was pulling him in tighter, a wordless reassurance Gascon hadn't known he needed.

“We'll be fine”, he said, running a hand through the former brigand's hair and over his back.

“We'll be fine”

There was a moment of silence, until Gascon suddenly pulled back like a bee had stung him. Something in the back of his mind tore at him. A realization he had attempted to push down. It felt like tumbling down a ravine, beasts lurking at the bottom, just waiting for their feast. And he knew he couldn't avoid that fate.

“No … No we won't”, he returned, his voice hardly more than a croak, staring at Reynard. Dread settled in his stomach and he felt like throwing up. Things were wrong. So terribly, awfully wrong.

There was a black hound, staring at them from the other side of the tent –

– Another start, a pained sob from somewhere. He didn't realize it was him for a moment, unable to see in the gloom. Gascon rubbed at his eyes, noticing his face was wet with tears. No surprise he wasn't able to see like that. He felt disoriented, the experiences of the nightmare clinging to him like hungry leeches.

He coughed, sitting up in the darkness, his hands subconsciously searching for something, for _someone_ next to him, only to find nothing. Nothing but the ghost of this dream lingering with him. The yearning for the person who had been around so long now, and would never be again.

A lance through Reynard's chest. Arrows in his own.

And only one of those had been a dream.

 


End file.
